


The Road to Freedom is Made With A Thousand Stumbling Steps

by MartyrJoan



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Force-Sensitive Finn (Star Wars), Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Post-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Pre-Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22853023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MartyrJoan/pseuds/MartyrJoan
Summary: Post-TLJ and Pre-TROS. Finn is still recovering from his injuries at the end of The Force Awakens and is trying to discover what freedom means, and how to choose his path. Poe is struggling with the weight of leadership in a seemingly endless war. Both men fight on and forward, and discover that they did not truly see the way the other suffered. In the quiet, in-between moments, as they hold onto the last scraps of the Resistance, they begin to find something like peace with the other.
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Finn
Comments: 11
Kudos: 45





	1. An Outsider

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is going to take loosely from Greg Rucka's Before the Awakening novel and the Poe Dameron comics by Charles Soule. Around TLJ is when the fic's timeline splinters off from the comics, so I hope that doesn't get too confusing. And, because I do not want the story to be dependent on this additional texts, I hope all the information from it is integrated in a way that does not detract from the story I'm aiming to tell.
> 
> I thought it was garbage how TLJ didn't address Finn's spinal injury at the end of TFA (and even played his wearing of the bacta suit for laughs) while simultaneously showing the evolution of Kylo's facial scar. So this fic is beginning of an exploration of Finn's injury and self-discovery, and I am seeing where it will take me from there. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Finn thinks he still walks strangely. 

It has been months since he first woke up half-sloshing through his movements, discovering he was in a bacta suit with a durasteel mesh embedded in his spine. After a few minutes of awkward, frantic searching around the sterile white room, he had remembered the cataclysmic  _ burning _ of Kylo Ren's blade slashing through his muscle and bone like he was made of the flimsiest of cloth. 

The last thing he could recall was the ice and dirt shoved against his cheek as his body shook with sweat and his consciousness sunk beneath the earth and into the angry churning of the base's reactor core. 

There had been no doctors waiting for him that day when he had woken. There had been no one waiting at all. And he could only  _ hope _ that this ship, with its alarms blaring, was part of the Resistance. They did not sound like the heavy klaxons of First Order ships, he had thought, blearily rubbing at his face and stumbling to his feet. Reaching for the wall, he had felt the smooth surface, grasping for stability as far off explosions rocked the sweet hum of the ship's engines.

Somehow he had survived that, clinging onto Poe like a refusal of every order of self-sufficiency he had ever been given. His hands dug into the smooth dark leather of his coat to feel  _ something  _ through the tear-streaked days, though he pretended it was just some casual, nonchalant act of intimacy. Poe either had the tact to not mention it or was hoping to ignore it until he stopped; though, Finn doesn't think the latter option is likely. He understands by now that if Poe has a problem with people, he tends to  _ say it.  _

So do Rey and General Organa and Rose and -- well, so had Han Solo. They do not straighten their shoulders and make nice, curt words of obedience. It surprises Finn, who waits for some sort of reprimand shaped by the cool voice of Phasma, but Leia isn't one for punishment so much as she is for  _ thinking critically.  _

He is working on speaking his mind, but sometimes it pours out of his mouth like the juice of those odd fruits Maz Kanata had put on their table at her cantina on Takodana. And other times his words come as rigid and as strictly portioned as his vision had been through the eyeholes of that impersonal white helmet. 

So, he doesn't tell anyone that he still walks funny. A slight hitch to his steps from where the durasteel is just a  _ hairsbreadth _ out of place. Sometimes there's a growing numbness there. He hopes they do not notice. He shakes it off.

Weeks pass. He says nothing. No one asks, either. 

But they  _ talk  _ to him, at him, around him. He’s never heard so much open conversation before then. There had been some camaraderie among the other troopers, but he’d never been  _ part _ of it. While he had grown larger and more capable in the eyes of their superiors -- particularly Phasma -- this had isolated him from the others. They had so much in common: all ate the same meals, wore the same armor, and slept in the same barren quarters composed of rows and rows of seemingly endless bunks. Any distinction from superiors meant little, as their armor was the same and their names were still slapped together with a series of letters and numbers. Advancements were seen in the form of extended responsibilities, but never in compensation or any sort of freedom.

Even so, they had all still craved that validation that accompanied standing out, that feeling of fulfillment that raises one’s chin and straightens one’s posture subconsciously with pride. Finn had received it. Or, FN-2187 had. And so, some nights when he had walked in on some of the other FN’s in a loose circle on the floor playing jacks, they had fallen silent. Finn had nodded slowly, eyes sliding over the game they played -- pieces made with bent utensils slipped away from the cafeteria and some of the clay that FN-2004 had boasted during their second daily meal that she had taken from the soil of their last planetside training and hidden in her boots. 

Without knowing what else to do or say, aware that if he asked to join, he would be awkwardly rejected, Finn had gone to bed. After an uncomfortable pause, he had given a measured response about needing sleep to be properly prepared for combat exercises in the simulators the next day, earning a scoff and a muttered “As if  _ you _ need it” from someone he didn’t see but suspected was FN-2199. When he had pulled up the thin, scratchy material that made up the only bedding he had ever known, Finn had turned away from the others and tried to focus on his breathing, swallowing down the bitter burning of jealousy in his throat at the muffled laughter coming from just a few feet behind him.

As the hours had stretched on and sleep had eluded him while the others still talked in forced whispers, he had begun to wonder if there was something wrong with him. 

* * *

  
  
  


In the present, Finn knows he won’t be scoffed at like FN-2199 had.  _ Nines _ , he thinks to himself, remembering the nicknames some of the FN unit had given each other. There’s something close to fondness as he remembers Nines’ focused blue eyes and rough voice. Until the sound ricochets and distorts in his mind into the choking cough his old comrade had made as Finn had sunk the lightsaber of Luke Skywalker through the white armor and deep into his chest. Nines had died in the dust of Maz’s cantina, spending up the last of his life calling Finn a traitor, when once, in different ways, they had envied each other. 

The people with the Resistance won’t isolate him the way the FN unit -- the way  _ all of the First Order _ \-- had. Finn knows this.

And yet, with all of their talking and self-assured personalities buzzing around him in a war he is still trying to understand the factual reality of...he still feels lonely.

After the battle of Crait, when they have collapsed on the the jungle moon of Ajan Kloss, he sleeps in the same tent as Poe -- they have too little supplies for actual quarters like there had been on D’Qar -- and he pulls a blanket that’s scratchy in a different way over his body, and looks for the sliver of moonlight cutting in through a hole in the canvas above them. It lands delicately on Poe’s sleeping face, handsome as always, and with his brow furrowed as it so often is while he is awake, like he is looking five steps further ahead than everyone else, like he is deliberating about the ethics of an issue no one else has even realized is a problem yet. There is always something commanding and analyzing in the pilot’s countenance; he is equal parts rugged and tender, Finn knows, and not even sleep could rob that from him. 

But he has dreams for the future and nightmares of the past that Finn will never understand, and he knows Poe could never understand his, either.

He turns over onto his back, his still-healing spine complaining with the effort as the torn-out cushion from a cruiser that serves as part of his mattress slips beneath him. He claps a hand over his mouth to stifle his own pained groan so as not to disturb Poe. There is a hollow space between him and liberation that cannot be crossed with sloppy words and mismatched durasteel.

He wonders, again, all these months later and on a different side of a war that preceded him and may yet outlive him, if there is something wrong with him. 


	2. The Toast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left comments on the last chapter. I'm humbled and challenged by them to do everything I can to give Finn and this story justice. Thank you for your anger at his treatment as well as your passion and sympathy for this silly and wonderful space adventure that has held our world captive for forty years. <3

One day, Poe finds Finn doing target practice in a clearing between the groves of colossal trees and vines on Ajan Kloss. He is bordering on frantic, his tan skin looking paler than usual as he pants heavily. Without a word, he yanks Finn in the direction of the makeshift common space. Their base is little more than quickly assembled heaps of scrap metal, canvas, and their last shreds of hope. Poe is running one hand through his dark hair while his other is firmly wrapped around Finn's upper arm.

"Poe, what _is_ it?" Finn asks exasperatedly, half-running, half-dragging behind the pilot who is still surprisingly agile outside the cockpit. He's learned in the past few months that sometimes when overcome with emotion, it's easier for Poe to just leap into action rather than sit around and explain.

"My team, buddy!" Poe practically hollers, half-turning as he runs between the tall trees. There is a look of weightless joy sparking on his features. The sunlight filters through the jungle canopy and dapples his smile and the sheen of sweat on his brow with its warm golden glow. Then, Finn has a wild thought: he wishes he could distill this moment, suspend it in time, and keep it in his pocket like a holo image. He wants to hold onto it all -- the trees, the motion, and, most importantly, the unrestrained joy of this strange and passionate man who is holding him tight.

But then, he's torn from it -- literally, as he tumbles forward, steps fumbling for a moment as a jolt of pain shocks up his spine. He recovers quickly, hiding the aggrieved injury, and he's laughing in disbelief. "Your team? You mean --"

"Black Squadron! My guys -- They're alive, Finn! _All of them!"_

It only takes a moment for it to sink in, and then Finn whoops with joy, and they’re grabbing onto each other in a wave of sudden euphoria that nearly topples them over. He has heard from the General and Poe and all the reports he’s been able to read that Black Squadron had departed on a covert recon mission just after the destruction of Starkiller Base. Then, after the near-annihilation of the Resistance at Crait, all the straggling pieces of the organization had had difficulty reconnecting, as various secret comm channels had either been exposed or purposefully collapsed before First Order moles could discover them. Black Squadron had been declared -- though it wasn’t exactly open knowledge for the sake of morale -- missing in action. When Finn had tried to ask him about it a couple months before, Poe had become suddenly defensive, his whole body stiffening as he had said sharply, “They’re alive. My team are some of the best of the best. _They’re alive._ ”

The memory folds in on itself as the weightlessness of the present expands within him. They’re alive. They’re _here._ Suddenly, it is then Finn who is dragging Poe between the battered X-wings at the hangar as the two of them rush towards a group of three human pilots leaning against an assemblage of crates, drinking out of the Resistance’s depleted reserves while still in their sweat-stained flight gear.

They practically crash together, Poe yelling “This is the guy I told you about!” gesturing to Finn with a kind of frantic pride. And then, Finn is laughing and gasping for breath, a nervous edge to the sound, as so many hands grasp him firmly, pat him on the back, and pull him in for tight hugs. 

It’s several minutes before any of them are able to get out a coherent sentence, and more than one canister of some drink -- “the good stuff”, Poe had called it a week ago, though Finn had never had access to alcohol before joining the Resistance, so he has little to compare it with -- has shattered on the wing of one of their ships, or a tree root, or something else. It’s hard to keep track. 

Finally, though his smile is still plastered on his aching cheeks, he feels his lungs are at last able to catch up with him as his breathing slows. He looks between the others, the sun seeming to shine brighter in that moment.

There’s Karé Kun, with her short blonde hair sticky with sweat against her light brown skin, burying her face into the shoulder of the taller man next to her. And that man, Finn would know even if the man hadn’t shouted an excited introduction, is Temmin Wexley -- _Snap_ , as everyone calls him -- with a round bearded face and a kind of thoughtfulness behind his eyes. His skin is pale, though it reddens slightly when he turns and presses a kiss to Karé’s forehead. 

Finn feels his gaze linger on the casual display of affection a moment longer than he thinks it should, remembering Poe talk once about how Karé and Snap’s wedding had been a rare moment of peace for the Resistance. The sky on D’Qar had been clear and bright, and General Organa had worn her best clothes, ones that pronounced her royal origins, and a smile that could spark ion engines. 

_“My own parents got married in the middle of the original war,” Poe had said wistfully from his bedroll in their tent one evening when recounting the ceremony. “In the middle of the night, beneath the stars on Yavin 4. There was hardly anyone there. They just wanted each other.” It was dark, but Finn could hear the smile in the other man’s voice. “I always liked that. How personal it was. But...Snap and Karé sharing that love with everyone, to remind us of what we’re fighting for...I think we all needed it.”_

_Finn remembers swallowing heavily, wondering what a wedding would look like. He could not remember ever having seen one. “Poe. Do you think there’s any chance there will be another one before this is over?”_

_“What, another wedding?” Poe had asked, and Finn heard a slight rustling of fabric that told him the other man must be moving to look more intently at him. “Dunno. I can’t say what makes something the ‘right time’. Guess that’s the business of two people in love out here.”_

_There had been a long pause, and Finn had thought that Poe had drifted off to sleep before his voice returned in a whisper._

_“It’d be nice, though.”_

Finn’s quiet revelry is cut short when he feels something cold and wet splash down the front of his shirt, punctuated with a lighthearted, “ _Oh, shit!_ ”

As he snaps back into focus, a hand is on his sleeve and the others all call out in a mix of frustration and mirth, followed by a couple crashing and beeping sounds, and, finally a defeated whimper. The last pilot, Jessika Pava, is doubled over, clutching half of a now shattered bottle in her hand.

Finn reaches out to touch her forearm, his mind immediately leaping forward to search for blood and to prevent further injury. However, when Jessika lifts her head, her long black hair falling gracelessly out of the bun she had tied it in, she seems to be laughing with her eyes wide and cheeks reddening. 

Then, his eyes take in a small plume of smoke from just below her, rising from the exposed circuitry of a green and grey astromech droid that had just been descending from an X-Wing parked a few feet behind them. The unfortunate droid’s headpiece swivels with jerking movements while emitting a trail of beeps, as though it is a concussed person muttering a stream of nonsense in order to stay conscious. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry -- dammit!” Jess yells, her laughter seeming to have transformed into disbelief. Snap and Karé, however, seem to be trying desperately to hide smiles, leaning their faces into their sleeves and acting like they are wiping their mouths. Then, Karé turns, looking around the catch someone’s attention. “Someone needs to help the poor thing,” she says.

“It appears the Great Destroyer has taken another victim,” Snap says, voice lofty and mischievous, raising his drink in a mock salute. 

“Shut up!” Jess whines, crouching on the ground in front of the droid, whose headpiece is still swiveling wildly on its cylindrical body. “Hey -- hey -- let me help!” She urges, though the droid zooms backwards a few feet before knocking loudly into one of the docking clamps for the X-wing it had just emerged from. 

“What...is going on?” Finn whispers to Poe, who is also eyeing the situation with a mixture of concern and humor.

“Jess, ah, see she...has something of a _skill_ for...accidentally wrecking her droids,” He says delicately, biting his lip and looking off into a distance where Finn does not see anything remarkable.

“What do you mean a --?” Finn begins, before a small object suddenly slams against his right leg and he loses his balance, clutching onto Poe’s arm so as not to fall over. 

“Woah, hey buddy!” Poe says, catching him with both arms. Finn’s legs take a few moments longer to respond than he thinks that they should, and he shakes his feet as if he can throw off the lingering numbness still weaving its way throughout his lower body. But Poe holds onto him the whole time, hand brushing down his sleeve and then pausing when the fabric ends almost abruptly and their bare skin collides. 

He pulls his hand back as though the malfunctioning droid had sparked him. 

Poe gives a tiny shake of his head, as if jolting himself into awareness again, and then jumps slightly. They look down at the same time and realize that what had caused Finn to lose his balance was, in fact, a distressed BB-8 ramming their way onto the scene. They are whirring and chirping up at Poe, who crouches down to talk to them.

“No, no -- I mean it doesn’t look -- Shh, it’s okay, pal,” Poe says hurriedly to the panicking droid, who stills at his voice. “Yes, that is Jessika. No, I’m not going to call her the Great Destroyer. Can you find a mechanic?”

BB-8 rolls backward a couple inches and then tilts their dome forward, mimicking a nod. Their radar eye flashes a deep red for a moment before they rocket off, snapping twigs and rolling over small weeds in the process. 

“Wait, even BB-8 calls her the Great Destroyer?” Finn asks as Poe stands. Jessika is prying off one of the cosmetic plates on the droid’s dome to further expose the damaged circuity, all while whispering consolations to it. “Snap, did you tell them to call her that?”

Snap throws up his hands with a laugh as Karé shakes her head, hopping up onto one of the crates nearby and holding her drink between her legs. “The droids all came up with the name first!”

“Every droid in the Resistance, and maybe some in the First Order. Or just random lackey droids with the New Republic,” Karé chips in.

“And in every port city we’ve ever been to,” Poe adds wearily. “From one end of the galaxy to another. If flying without an astromech wasn’t a huge safety risk, well, Jess would be flying solo.”

“Hey!” She whips around, dark brown eyes delivering a withering glare at Poe.

“Yeah? What? You got any defense to that?” Poe crosses his arms and cocks his head to the side. He looks like he could be staring down a rathtar and _win_ with only the daring tilt of his eyebrow. 

Jessika unzips her flight suit and pushes the grease and sweat-stained orange off her arms so it bunches around her waist, revealing a toned physique in a dirty tank top beneath. Squaring her shoulders, she opens her mouth as if to retaliate, but no sound comes out. Instead, the droid in front of her beeps again, saying something in binary, and her posture sags. 

Snap and Karé burst out laughing, and Poe’s practiced smirk cracks into a genuine smile too. Jessika’s face reddens as she turns back to the droid and begins to assess the damages again. 

“What did the droid say?” Finn tries to quietly ask Poe, but it’s too late. 

“Finn, do you speak binary?” Karé asks, and she leans forward on the crate she has positioned herself on. The question is loudly placed, more loud than Finn would want it to be, and her face is still, but there is something gently curious in her gaze. The late afternoon sun blazes a strong burst of red and orange behind her now, making the tangled corona of her hair seem to crackle and spark like a wildfire. Even so casually, Finn can see the casual strength and purpose that followed this woman from the New Republic Navy to the Resistance as she stood beside -- not behind -- Poe. 

He looks to the ground, pursing his lips together and shakes his head. The ease and daring humor of a moment before seems zapped from the air and they are left with the choking humidity of the jungle. Swallowing the shame down like it is some dirty lukewarm water that he must keep down for the sake of survival, he looks up again. “No. Troopers weren’t taught.”

While he knows that Poe must have told them before the battle of Starkiller Base or even just before running to reach him today on Ajan Kloss, it feels strange to talk to these people --who could yet be friends, with all their lives and loves and heroics behind them -- about his empty void of a life before this one, about all the aching loneliness that the First Order had tried to fill with rage. 

“I thought that’s a skill they would have deemed ‘essential’,” Snap says, taking a large swig of his drink, though his eyes don’t leave Finn’s face. “Bastards. Can’t imagine what their actual reasoning is.” There’s a pause. “But...sorry,” he adds.

He and Poe share a significant look, one that makes Finn fidget. Clearing his throat, he ignores the last statement and instead looks from Poe to Snap to Karé and says, “I know why.”

Everyone’s attention snaps to him, even Jessika still perched in front of the slightly smoking astromech. Though the rest of the base and the jungle itself are buzzing with life, the world seems to be pulled to attention. A bead of sweat runs down the side of his face, and he feels uncomfortably aware of it, the way that he would be with his head beneath the helmet. 

Finn shrugs. “Teaching us to communicate with droids would mean we could communicate with more of the world. Things…” He trails off, thinking of the unexpected personality he’s seen in every droid he’s met in the Resistance, even when BB-8 had a strange vendetta against him. “Things that they can’t control. And then, their perfect soldiers would start questioning things, right?”

They all seem to nod solemnly, processing his words and the glimpse he has offered them of an unimaginable life of steel and precision. 

Poe’s hand is resting on the small of his back, a comfort and a reminder. He isn’t sure how to acknowledge it, so he doesn’t, but Poe doesn’t move it away, either. 

“Even from a tactical standpoint, people could start relaying secret messages through a droid network,” Snap says. “Did you receive any sort of rudimentary mechanics lessons?”

“Beyond repairing our blasters during a fire fight? Hell no,” Finn says.

“Yet you always leap in to help when I ask for it while working on something with BB-8,” Poe says quietly, a kind of amazement in his voice. A gentle smile paints his lips across his stubbled cheeks.

Finn simply shrugs. “I’ve got to be useful.”

“Hey,” Karé says suddenly, and he looks to her again, reluctantly breaking eye contact with Poe. “We could teach you binary. It’s never too late to learn something new.”

At that, he’s smiling again, with no reluctance, just a slow dawning. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

Poe’s hand moves slowly up his back. Neither of them say anything. 

“I’ll toast to that!” Jessika says brightly.

“Nope, your toasting privileges have been revoked, Pava. There aren’t enough droids in the Resistance to handle that,” Poe cuts in. And just like that, with that simple magic of his, they are all laughing again. Laughter is a strange balm, one that Finn is still discovering makes him feel almost the way he does when he is flying and there’s that subtle weightless kick when they jump into hyperspace.

A few more jokes are swapped before BB-8 comes bursting into the fray again, a panting Rose behind him. She’s wiping grease on her coveralls, a utility bag slung over one shoulder messily. Then, her anxious face brightens when she sees Finn and Poe. “Hey guys! This is...not the Destroyer situation I thought it would be.”

“I’ve probably done more damage than a Star Destroyer,” Jess moans sadly.

“Oh! Looks like that’s my patient?” Rose says, gesturing to the droid. “I’d say that’s a damaged auditory processor, and...oooh, maybe something else. Just by the looks of it.” She carefully weaves between the boxes and ships and haphazardly assembled people to crouch down next to Jessika.

“This is Rose, by the way,” Finn says awkwardly.

“Oh, yeah! That’s me,” Rose says, looking up briefly before resuming her work.

“Rose Tico,” Poe says significantly. “And this is Black Squadron.”

And in that moment Rose drops one of her tools, landing with a thump on Jessika’s foot. “Black -- sorry -- _Black Squadron_?” 

“Guilty,” Jess says good-naturedly before her face falls. “In...more ways than one.”

“You’re Paige’s sister, then?” Karé asks kindly.

Finn wants to intercept before the conversation can turn sour, but it’s too late. Rose is picking up her dropped tool with one hand, face downturned, while her other hand reaches for her neckline to clutch at the half-moon necklace he knows she is always wearing. “She loved you all,” she says, voice thick with emotion. “You might be the only group of people as brave as she was.”

“No,” Jess breathes.

Karé slips down from atop the crate, takes a step towards Rose, and then appears to think better of it. She crosses her arms for want of activity. “I’m so sorry.”

Snap looks to Poe and Finn. “When…?”

“It was...just after the evacuation of D’Qar,” Poe says, and Finn can see the muscles in his jaw clenching. “There were so many of their ships, and we had to create a diversion...Paige took a whole Star Destroyer with her.”

“She never was good at giving up on anything,” Jess says, wiping at her face. “I remember she and I used to make dares about flying maneuvers that could probably kill a lesser pilot...She’d pull stunts that might even knock me unconscious. All because she was stubborn.”

“Too stubborn,” Rose says quietly. “And too brave.”

Just then, Snap clears his throat. He is raising his drink. “To Paige.”

“To Paige,” they all repeat, though Finn hears Poe say her full name, slowly and quietly. He does not drink. 

“Anyway,” Rose says suddenly, getting to work on that droid, whose beeps have grown weaker in volume, “Everyone has their own tragedy out here.”

They all nod.

“So...tell me more about Black Squadron,” she adds hopefully.

“I have a question about Black Squadron myself,” Poe says suddenly. Looking around at the others, he supplies: “When are you going to tell me where Suralinda is, huh?”

Finn feels silly for not having asked that question sooner. Suralinda Javos, though not an original member of Black Squadron, had become a part of the team, Poe has told him. She was a Squamatan, a humanoid alien species with blue skin, pointed teeth, and the ability to spit acidic venom -- all of which Finn had had to research himself after Poe’s mention of her. The First Order had limited their knowledge on non-human species, often deeming them “uncivilized” and “not worth their time or attention”. 

Suralinda had been integral to the New Republic as both a member of the Navy and an investigative journalist. From everything Poe had told him of her, she sounded resourceful and cunning in a way that many in the First Order believed themselves to be, but few actually were.

“Classified, my friend,” Jessika says, leaning back to sit against one of the docking clamps for her X-wing and giving Rose space to do her work. She smirks at Poe, as if relishing his frustration.

“What?” he asks.

“Jessika’s right,” Karé supplies with a sad shrug. “General Organa swore us to secrecy on this one. If you have to know, take it up with her.”

“Swo-- She _swore you to secrecy_ ? From _me_?” Poe asks incredulously, throwing a hand in the air and batting at the air dismissively. “I’m the leader of this Squadron! Why would the General --?”

“Poe, it’s alright,” Snap says assuredly. “She was assigned the mission -- recon, she’s deep undercover, playing the long game I think -- She was assigned it while you were tracking Lor San Tekka on Jakku. But don’t worry. We’ve kept tabs on our girl.”

“Secret channel, completely off the holonet, with about a dozen relays and false addresses,” Jess adds, tapping her foot against an exposed tree root absentmindedly. “Even so, we only send a message every three weeks or so.”

“Can never be too careful,” Snap finishes. “Her last transmission was dated…”

“Fourteen days ago,” Karé nods, and Snap gestures to her.

“Thank you, my love,” he says, and Karé smiles warmly.

Poe hesitates, taking it all in. Finn knows he must be annoyed that he can’t be fully informed yet, that he can’t swoop in and play the whole mission out beside Suralinda, but he is taking it in stride. Then, he suddenly raises his own drink again. “To Suralinda Javos!” 

“Suralinda!” They all echo, until Rose leans back from her in-progress repair and says “If we’re gonna keep making toasts, will one of you give me a drink?”

As Finn hurries to pour her a glass, Poe suddenly asks, “Did I ever tell you about the time Suralinda and I were taken captive together?”

“Or the time you and I were arrested in a high security prison looking for a Hutt?” Snap cuts in.

“Or the time --” Jessika begins.

“Alright, alright! I’ve been arrested a lot!” Poe laughs. 

“ _We_ met each other when you were detained by the First Order,” Finn adds, feeling a smile crack across his face as Poe gives him a playful shove. 

The afternoon wears on, rubbing its edges dull against the atmosphere and making the light take on a kind of fuzzy quality. The leaves seem to change to deeper greens in the fading light, everything growing richer and stranger to them. A slight breeze picks up -- a great mercy that cools their sweat-stained cheeks. 

The astromech has been fully repaired with only a slightly discolored plate on its dome as an indication of its previous injury. Though, according to the others, it has gone on to loudly declare its victory over the Great Destroyer to any other droids who will listen. All of them, including Rose, are sitting now, without a care for how dirty or overgrown the ground is. Finn’s arm is touching Poe’s, and he lets their hands press against each other’s as well. Some small voice panics that it is too much, though he hushes it into the far reaches of the now-gathering sunset. 

Besides, there is no room for panic here, with all the banter, quick as blaster fire, where some of them have even begun to make cautious shots at Finn. Most of the time, he is able to volley it back with a quick jab of his own, but sometimes he feels he barely catches the others’ words before fumbling over them and watching them kick up new dust beneath them. There are so many stories being told, so many things _to_ tell. Finn thinks that this is what the other troopers must have felt like in all those nights where they played games and whispered between the bunks, letting their laughter distinguish the days.

“And so I said that loser has to run across the mess with _nothing_ on but a gravity belt set to the lowest setting --” Poe is saying, words only slightly slurring together, which is impressive considering how much he has had to drink over the last few hours.

“How powerful is the lowest setting?” Finn asks.

“Let’s just -- Let’s just say that if you’re wearing it on a planet with standard g’s, like this one, then one overconfident step and you’re gonna be hanging from the top of that tree,” Poe says, pointing. 

“That’s an exaggeration,” Rose cuts in.

“Not with the kind of gravity belts we got,” Snap says proudly. “Modified for the most extreme environments.”

“That’s...dangerous,” Rose says dryly, raising an eyebrow and taking a careful sip of her drink. She is sitting with her legs crossed, hair up in a messy bun now after having done and redone it four times over the last hour. “You have to let me try it sometime.”

“We had to get specially fitted ones for the time Snap and I were infiltrating a prison on a high-gravity world. And we went in planning to drop the gravity field.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Finn sighs.

“It was a solid plan,” Snap says. “It went well, all things considered. Makes a good story, anyway. Especially with Terex showing…” He trails off, gaze turning shifty and uncertain. Poe clears his throat as well. 

“It’s not that funny, really,” he says in a pathetic attempt to cover it up.

Finn feels annoyance flare up inside him. No one is making eye contact with him, and that alarms him more than the standstill their conversation has just arrived at. Only Rose looks confused, eyebrows furrowing together the way they do when she is driven with a kind of stubborn focus.

“I know who Terex is,” Finn practically spits. “You don’t have to spare my feelings.”

“How did --?” Jessika begins.

“The General’s given me access to all but the most classified of files. I’ve been reading everything I can.” Finn’s voice grows louder, more confident. “Because I think that if I’m going to devote my life to some organization again, I need to know everything about who they are and what they stand for.”

The sunset is turning an orange that Finn thought was reserved for stars only in their infancy, but the one that warms Ajan Kloss is undoubtedly in its midstage of life, having seen billions of years already. The world is painted in such strong and stark colors, and he looks around at all five of the others, cast in varying harsh shadows and plumes of reds and oranges. The world is a flame, and maybe, for that moment, it burns from him. They are all staring at him like it is the first time in their lives they have seen the strange and terrifying miracle that is fire.

It urges him on.

“So, I know that Terex was a stormtrooper. I know that he held onto everything that the Empire was. I know it all -- or as much as the reports will show me -- and that’s where it all becomes okay. I have the power to know, when there were so many things, my entire life, that they didn’t want me to know. Fine, if Terex chose that path, he paid for it. You made sure of it. 

Am I scared that that’s going to be me? That I’ll find I’ve got so little identity outside of their brainwashing that I’ll go crawling back? 

I hope that’s not what you think of me. But if it is, fine. Because that’s not what _I_ think of me. I’ve made my choice. And just the mention of someone else who made a different one isn’t going to break me.”

_Nothing can_ , he thinks for a moment before he remembers Kylo Ren’s saber at his spine again. He swallows hard and looks at the others, wondering if he has been too harsh or if they will understand where he is coming from. The silence could last from the Battle of Yavin until now, he thinks. Maybe he was born in it.

Until Poe, warm beside him and juxtaposed against the ruby red glow of the sun, clears his throat, raises his own drink, and says, voice clear, “To Finn.”

“To Finn!”


	3. Eulogies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the reunion of Black Squadron, Finn is woken up by a frantic BB-8 -- and Poe missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, many months later! I apologize for the delay, I've been sitting on versions of this chapter for a while but have lacked the will to write. You don't need me to tell you that the world is so overwhelming these days. If you're still here for this story, I am so grateful, and I hope you're taking care of yourself.

The nights are often just as unbearably humid as the days are during the hot season on Ajan Kloss, and so Finn is sweating uncomfortably though the sun has long since dipped beneath the skyline and plunged them all first into deep purples and at last muted blacks. There is a different kind of warmth somewhere in his center, though; all the drinks from earlier are still pleasantly sitting with him, dragging his weary body into his bedroll and off to a dreamless sleep. 

He is not sure how long he has been asleep when he wakes up again. He was not disrupted by something sudden, nor did consciousness gently come to him like the growing ebb and flow of the changing tides. It feels as though he was simply asleep one moment, and then awake the next. It’s not surprising; he had never slept too deeply with the First Order, anyway. Phasma’s relentless mid-sleep emergency drills had instilled in him from a young age the importance of being ready to leap into action at a moment’s notice. 

There are some distant conversations and insects chirping in disordered intervals outside. Footsteps here and there, but nothing either too frantic or too subdued to cause any sort of alarm. 

But, there is one sound that causes him to stir and turn over. The absence of a sound, really.

He doesn’t hear Poe’s quiet breathing, the push and pull sometimes accentuated with a grunt or sigh that has become his companion through the nights. On rare days, Poe talks in his sleep, though the pilot himself doesn’t believe him when he says that. Squinting through the dark, he sees the crumpled padding of Poe’s bedroll, strange in its emptiness. Finn blinks a few times, feeling suddenly lonely.

_Maybe he wanted to spend some time with Black Squadron without me,_ he thinks. _That’s okay...right? They’ve known each other much longer, been through more together._

Still, he feels a kind of envy that he thinks is undeserved. His people are Rey and Poe and Rose...but he feels they all have allegiances and people beyond him. Rey may not have deep relationships, but with the guidance of first Luke Skywalker and now the General herself, she has been called to the Jedi Order -- if such a thing should exist again. 

Is simply being a part of this Resistance enough? He doesn’t know how to make choices for himself; the first he remembers truly making was pulling Poe aside and ripping off his own helmet, showing he was an individual, and that he was afraid. The steps since then have been clearly laid out with a sense of urgency -- finding your conscience and bravery in the middle of a war does that -- but he still feels that he should be seeking something _else._

Finn sighs and sits up, throwing his legs over the edge of his cot. Rubbing at his eyes distractedly, he wonders: if the war ends, who he will be? What will he be left with? 

Just then, there is quick rustling as the tent flap partially pulls open, making the lights outside shimmer for a moment before returning him to darkness. By his feet, he hears a sad note, followed by a force pressing insistently against his leg. Looking down, BB-8 has reared back and then rushes forward to hit his leg again, whirring with a kind of frantic excitement.

“You know where Poe is?” Finn asks, feeling sleep shuck itself off of him as a low level of panic sets on. 

BB-8 continues to beep in various frequencies, rolling back and forth restlessly.

“You know I don’t understand you,” Finn says, and the droid rolls into his leg again. 

“Okay, okay! I’m getting up!” He adds exasperatedly. “But BB-8, tell me: Is Poe okay?”

The droid backs up, and tilts its small head back on its magnetic rollers, as if contemplating something, before they give a high-pitched whistle: a sound Finn knows by now is an affirmative. Then, they shoot back towards the entrance to the tent, beeping a chorus of sounds that may not actually translate into anything. 

“So you want me to follow you?” Finn asks, bewildered, and the droid whistles an excited _yes!_ again. Before he can say anymore, the droid has rocketed back out the canvas flap of the tent, leaving Finn in darkness once again. 

“It’s still a jungle! I still need shoes!” Finn calls out in a rushed whisper to no one in particular. Pulling on his boots clumsily, he stomps out into the night, muttering “Not that a droid’d know anything about that…”

He quickly scans the area and sees a slight glint from the light of some engineer’s blowtorch bounce off the orange and white of BB-8, who is rocketing past the various parked X-wings and shuttles under repair. Starting into a jog, he chases after the droid, ducking under the dark wings of the ships and around different techs still milling about in the darkness -- nearly toppling over a whole crate of ore recently mined from one of Ajan Kloss’ two moons and still waiting for a purpose.

The ground grows uneven with the undulating roots of the massive trees as BB-8 heads straight out of the camp and into the edge of the forest. Suddenly, the droid parks right at the treeline and whips around, causing Finn to turn and look as well, wondering if they are being followed or if there are First Order troops.

Finn realizes then that he had not grabbed any sort of weapon. Fear floods his body and sits in his stomach as he hears BB-8 beep something excitedly and he turns back around. The droid is staring straight at him, optical unit rotating as if focusing intently, the deep red at the back of the cylinder seeming to flash in the dark around them. _Oh_ , Finn thinks, _BB-8 was just making sure I was still with them._

Then, they rocked off again, moving with improbable ease and grace over the rough ground and thick underbrush. Thorns and brambles stick to Finn’s pants legs, and at one point a vine wraps around his ankle like a tight fist. After catching himself, wrist and hands shaking slightly with the impact of hitting the ground, Finn tries to remember something Rose had said about the plants here weeks ago, that some of them have “minds of their own.” Rey had also talked about every living thing being part of the Force...and maybe that was true, but what was the point of tripping him past midnight? How did _that_ connect them? He groaned, brushing off his knees and pulling himself free, feeling the dampness of the jungle floor sinking deep into the fabric of his clothing. 

BB-8 rolls forward then, and from their central unit in their body pops open a compartment with a ferociously blazing lighter, and looks eagerly at Finn’s ankle and the now-retreating vine.

“No -- no! Don't burn it, BB-8,” he scolds. The droid’s dome plunges downward on its body, and Finn imagines a person’s shoulders sinking with wounded pride as they stow the lighter away and close the compartment again with a series of clicking sounds. With a sigh, Finn adds, “Thank you for wanting to help me.”

BB-8 beeps happily, and it's so endearing that he can’t help but crack a smile. He has to admit, Poe's fiery little companion is growing on him. 

“Alright, we’re a few minutes away from camp now...Poe can’t be much further, can he? Should we go back and get others?”

BB-8 swivels their dome around insistently, almost angrily.

Wiping the sweat gathering on his forehead, Finn stands. The trees are thicker here, with little light from the moons and the planet they all orbit making it through the cross-hatch of their branches, bold with life. There are chittering noises all around as the jungle clicks and cheers with life. Leaning against a tree beside him, palm spread out and open on the thick moss that seems to circle up the trunk almost in a spiral, he looks to the sky and the pinpricks of distant stars half a galaxy away.

He wishes in that moment that so much was different. That he grew up dreaming on stars instead of seeing them as a stark backdrop for the rigorous routine of his formative years. That the Resistance was more than tatters welded together with some plasto-cast and Hope. But, most importantly -- he wishes that he had a life where he knew at least _some_ damn binary, so he could understand what the droid was telling him about Poe.

But, that's enough whining for now, he thinks. He steps away from the tree, and rolls his shoulders. As he starts to turn away, however, a small spark of light catches his eye.

In the moss, shaking in its outline as though a child has drawn it, is a steadily glowing handprint. It is a neon blue-green, almost pulsing. Transfixed, Finn turns back to it and experimentally presses his hand just above the print and pulls it away. Slowly, that spot illuminates before his eyes in another palm, as though rows and rows of lightning bugs have sat in formation and are mimicking his hand's indentation.

“Is that...all the moss here?” Finn runs to the next tree and takes a quick swipe across a few feet of its mossy base, and, sure enough, there is a long swipe of light, this time more green than blue, wiping across his vision. He continues to the other nearby trees with all the excitement of a child, and begins smearing his hands across them, writing his name and watching it fill up the blackness. The imprints of light in this deep darkness look like the blur of a ship’s engine when they jump to hyperspace, stretching the light as time itself warps around them.

As if all the energies of the universe repeat in patterns, on big and small scales, he thinks...as if they really are all connected.

“This is amazing,” he whispers, wishing he could tell Rey or Rose or -- Poe. Looking frantically for BB-8, who is waiting impatiently (their lighter is pulled out again) for him at a space between trees where the ground curves upward suddenly, Finn adds “Sorry, buddy. It was just -- Nevermind. Let’s go.”

They walk a few more minutes deeper into the jungle then, pushing vines and broad leaves and flowering fruits out of the way until they come to a small clearing. BB-8 stops in the shadows just before the moonlight floods the area like water poured into a basin. And, at the center of this silverish glow, is a fallen tree growing over with that strange moss, the roots twisting desperately into the air for light and life, casting eerie shadows onto the spongy earth around them. Laying on his back across the fallen trunk, face and body appearing cracked with the twisting shadows above him, is Poe. He is holding a datapad in one hand, resting on his stomach. The other hand is holding his head. 

As Finn takes a step closer, holding a hand up to BB-8 to stop them, he realizes that Poe seems to be shaking. He pauses some fifteen feet away, unsure of what to do or make of this sight. Whatever it was BB-8 had been frantic about, Finn had not imagined it could be...this. There is a quiet voice, and Finn thinks Poe is talking to himself, but, as he steps closer, he realizes that his mouth isn’t moving. It is only when Poe’s voice stutters and repeats that Finn realizes it is a recording.

“.. _.followed me --”_ The datapad catches on the word “ _follow--followed me -- no, stood beside me -- when we left the Republic Navy together to commit ourselves to the Resistance, to this fight. That was who she was, though. The most steadfast ally in a fight, and the m --_ ”

Finn takes a few steps closer, heart speeding up in his confusion. “...Poe?”

Poe whips around suddenly, nearly falling off the wide trunk and dropping the datapad. He quickly scrambles for it, pauses the recording, and looks at Finn for a long moment before draping himself out again, tilting his head back to the blanket of stars above them. He laughs, and the sound is like unfinished metal scraping against a board: hollow and grating to his ears. 

Finn doesn’t know what to do, so he says nothing, moves nothing, hardly dares to breathe. They are caught like this for a minute, in the silence and the dull glow of the stars, with patches of the moss starting to glow beneath Poe’s reclining form.

Finally, the other man speaks. “If a tree falls in the last-ditch Resistance base, and everyone sleeps through the night, how do we know it wasn’t the First Order?”

This does nothing to help Finn’s confused apprehension. Poe doesn’t sound drunk per se, but he doesn’t sound sober, either. Maybe he’d had another drink even after the rest of them had stopped. Finn wishes he had checked on him more closely. He fidgets, wondering if he should point out that this tree has clearly been fallen for a while now, with the amount of undergrowth slowly reaching around it and pulling it into the jungle floor.

He decides on sarcasm instead, trying to feign some of their normal banter. "You don't know the First Order like I do.” He shakes his head. “You seen Kylo Ren? They're not that subtle." Finn doesn't mention how, in truth, the First Order razes whole forests to the ground for supply, how they slaughter everything in their path and never think anything of it beyond their brutal efficiency.

Poe laughs, slightly less empty than the one before. He sits up again, and Finn can feel some of the tension in the air dissipating like power crackling out in a broken circuit. Poe fixes his eyes on him. "How'd you find me?"

"BB-8." Cautiously, Finn steps forward and sits a couple feet away on the trunk. 

"Ah, that's my little guy." There is some of his usual fondness in his tone, though he adds nothing more. Finn sees the disarray of Poe’s thick hair, the patches he clearly missed when last shaving, and the deep bags under his eyes. And yet, Finn thinks, he is still so handsome.

Searching for something to say, brow furrowing, Finn asks,"What was that you were listening to? Sounded like your own voice, talking about Karé--"

“It was,” Poe says sternly, but also with some defeat. He looks over into the treeline, as if he is contemplating running.

“Are those just journal entries, then?”

“What? No. I mean, I keep logs, but I've never really _journalled.”_ Poe narrows his eyes, and kneads a spot on his forehead persistently. “It’s --” He stops suddenly, crossing his arms. “Let’s just drop it, okay?”

“No,” Finn retorts immediately. “Not okay -- okay? BB-8 woke me in a panic, and you’ve ran off into the jungle to collapse and listen to some old logs, alone in the dark? Poe, what’s going on?” He slowly scoots closer to him, refusing to look away.

Poe finally turns and meets his gaze, and though they are both cast in such deep shadow, Finn swears the other man’s eyes are wet. He clears his throat. “Fine,” he scoffs, looking up at the stars again, the shifting light casting his features in sharp relief. Then, Poe turns back, somehow _smiling._ “I just can’t seem to hide anything from you, Finn. I can’t figure it out.”

Before Finn has time to reply, Poe takes a breath and hands the datapad to him, talking quickly. “They’re -- they’re _letters._ To family or next of family or whatever, _whoever_ Black Squadron chose to be notified if...the worst happens. Gener -- _Leia_ taught me to make these things personal, and so...I did.” Finn scrolls through the display and backs out to a whole folder of audio files. There are multiple named for each member of his team, the files ranging from a minute to ten minutes, with marks beside them that indicate they’ve been edited. 

Carefully handing it back, Finn asks, “The whole team is safe and back. Why listen to it now?”

“I just...couldn’t stop thinking about it. Maybe they’re safe now, but for how long? I don’t know.” Poe clenches his jaw. 

Finn figures he shouldn’t press too hard there and switches topics. "Man, when did you even get the _time_ to record all these?" It doesn’t come out as humorous as he intended.

Poe shrugs. "These are old. Not even mission specific, just...in case."

"Exactly how old are we talking?" Their voices are so quiet now.

"Six months, at least." Poe pauses, and then closes his eyes, shoulders slumping. "Nine months, one week, three days."

"Poe, that's before the Starkiller,” Finn replies incredulously. “Before we even met."

"Yeah, it is."

Poe doesn’t seem inclined to talk more. His eyes are open again but staring blankly forward. "I'm guessing something happened then that made you start counting days."

"That was the day uncle L'ulo died.” Poe tosses the datapad aside, stands up and paces a few feet away, boots kicking at a flimsy weed petulantly.

Finn remembers the heroic stories of L’ulo L’ampar that Poe would regale him with over meals. A veteran of the Rebellion alongside Poe’s parents, and one of the many lost in the Resistance. And Under Poe’s command. He doesn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

Poe shakes his head, trying to dismiss it, but his mouth turns downward slightly all the same. “He’s not the first person I lost, but the first of _Black Squadron_ to fall. And a member of the old guard -- the Rebellion.” He pauses, stopping in front of Finn as if quietly begging him to hang onto each word. There is something burning with each word, each syllable, and behind his dark eyes. “It was _different_ when I was with the New Republic. Even when things were bad, they were never beyond salvation. There was always an end in sight. Now...hell, the New Republic doesn't even _exist_ anymore!” Gesturing pointedly above them, he adds, “If this were a year ago, I probably could have pointed out the Hosnian system to you, named each speck of light that was a planet, that housed billions...Hosnian Prime started as a mining planet run by slave labor, like too many planets in this damn galaxy. Then it was the supposed seat of democracy.” Anger flares up suddenly and he kicks a stone by his feet. It thuds unspectacularly into the damp earth. “Now it’s dust. Maybe less than that.”

Holding an expression of vindictive fury for a few moments, Poe’s face then all but collapses. A hand returns to his forehead as he sighs. “Sorry, Finn. You've got enough to handle, I don't mean to give you my demons, too."

Finn smiles weakly. "Don't worry about it."

"No, I am sorry.” Poe retorts, throwing his hands out dramatically. “Sorry you stumbled into this whole _scene._ "

"I'm not." Finn’s eyes don’t leave Poe’s face. He keeps his voice even.

Poe clearly was not expecting that reply. "Really?"

"I've never had anyone talk with me on this level. Never had a leader confess to me their doubts. I almost didn't think they could.” Finn’s voice is warm, warmer than the humid nights in the jungle. “But hey, I like that the great, unyielding Commander Poe Dameron stays awake at night _worrying about his people._ "

"Well, it can be a daily occurrence if you like it so much," Poe replies smoothly, automatically. He seems surprised even at himself, and then runs a hand through his hair, pulling himself together. After a moment, Poe sits beside Finn again, closer than they were before. They stare at each other a moment, Poe’s breath hot on his face. Finn licks his lips absentmindedly. 

Poe clears his throat, snapping them both back to reality, and leans over to pick up the datapad again. He taps it a few times, deep in thought. "You know, I recorded these before Snap and Karé were married. I always knew what they felt, but now with it out in the open...How do I write the letters like this? Do I record a message for Snap if something happens to Karé? Or to Karé if Snap...I mean, assuming they weren’t there to witness it. What can I say? How do I even…?" He trails off helplessly.

"At least you -- and everyone in the Resistance -- gets a choice." Finn says, thinking bitterly of how trooper deaths -- even accidents -- were just casualty numbers in a report. Sometimes people would go missing, and Phasma's gun would be at your back if you dared to question it. Their ranks were just quietly replaced. 

"Poe, if it was you, if you were _married_ to someone you were fighting a war alongside...how would you want the General to tell you if they fell?"

Poe looks somewhat amused, one eyebrow curving up. "I can't even imagine myself married, Finn, let alone what letters I'd want sent. What about you?"

Finn furrows his brows as well, not quite sure himself. He wonders why it hadn’t occurred to him before. "The only people I really have are you, Rey, and Rose, so I hope the General could write to you--"

"No, I mean…” Poe looks uncharacteristically sheepish, eyes searching his face. “Can you see yourself married?"

He feels once again caught off-guard, like the world has just shifted violently beneath him, or the durasteel in his spine has stuttered again and he has lost his footing. But, it also feels so much better than that. Like he’d purposely trip again just for that feeling of weightless wonder. "I--I don't know. I think I'd want to."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah,” Finn says, voice growing stronger. “It's a choice, right? Another kind of freedom the First Order didn't allow to us."

Poe looks thoughtful. "I didn't think of it that way."

"I didn't expect you to."

Poe nods. "For me, it's...I'm married to this fight. I was born into the Rebellion, and my life is dedicated to the Republic, and now, with that in ashes scattered to the solar winds...the Resistance.” He rolls his eyes, as if realizing how dramatic he sounds. “I mean, I’m not _denying_ myself of anything. I've been in love, it's just that marriage is...different than that."

It’s Finn’s turn to nod thoughtfully."What do you think would change your mind?"

There is a pause long enough that Finn considers repeating himself before Poe replies, "For someone to stay."

Their eyes catch each other’s again, and Poe is biting his bottom lip. The air suddenly feels dry, and yet _charged_ , like all the hairs on his body are standing up, like they are about to be caught in a summer thunderstorm.

Finn averts his gaze, overwhelmed. Looking beneath them, he draws his hands slowly across the moss beneath them and watches it illuminate a bright yellow-green, the same color of the big oblong leaves on some of the trees here. 

He wonders what it would be like to have found this place on his own, to have so many people responsible to him that he writes the letters of their deaths, a eulogy of sorts. He wonders what it feels like to have that much love -- because he has seen first-hand now that that is what ties Black Squadron together, not just respect -- in your life, and to be afraid to lose it. Poe’s hand brushes against his then, and Finn feels he may start shaking.

"You should delete them,” he blurts. “The letters. If it comes down to it, I'll help you write them again."

Poe looks confused. "Shouldn't I hold onto it? Remember the stakes?"

Finn feels he could laugh uproariously at the absurdity of such a notion. " _Nothing in the Galaxy_ could ever make you forget the stakes, Poe Dameron, and if you believe that you could then you're lying to yourself.” He puts his hand on top of Poe’s then, careful enough with the placement that he could pretend it was a mistake. But the moss begins to glow all the same, a moon-bright evidence of their touch. “Delete them, because we need to have faith in our people." 

Poe’s eyes widen, and he turns his hand over to squeeze Finn’s before letting go. "I'll...think about it.” He smiles, breathless in wonder. “How do you believe like that, Finn?"

"Honestly, I don't. But I want to.” He pauses, looking at the gentle luminescence of the moss again, as it shines through the gaps between his fingers, like he is holding onto a sun. “And it...kinda feels like the Force. It doesn't make sense, but I _feel_ it."

Poe elbows him playfully. "The General said you were strong with it."

Finn shakes his head. "No. Not really. Not like Rey."

"Are you sure? Leia seems to think so. And I grew up swinging from the branches of a _Force tree,_ so I think I know a thing or two about the Force."

Finn looks back up at him, ready to laugh. "You just made that up."

"I did not!” Poe throws up his hands defensively. “Luke Skywalker gave my parents a Force tree to plant on Yavin 4 shortly after the war ended. I was a toddler then, and…” His voice is a hush of a lazy breeze caressing tree limbs. “It seemed to glow on the crest of a hill, like it sparked the sunrise…I could show it to you one day."

Finn grins. "I'd like that."

“Me too.” Poe’s smile matches his, brighter than the glow of the jungle. “Thank you, Finn. I...thank you."

Poe stands then, brushing off his clothes and stooping to retrieve the datapad once again. He looks like he is ready to disappear into the trees and make their way to the base again, though he does not announce the intention. Maybe BB-8 is still waiting for him, patient and dutiful to a fault. 

Finn feels strangely emboldened. "Hey, Poe?"

Poe looks at him and extends a hand, offering to help him up. "Yeah?"

"I just want you to know... " As he grabs Poe’s hand and stands, he feels his bravado leaving him. It simmers into sincerity, Poe’s hand warm and rough in his. “You know that...I am going to stay, right?"

They are just inches apart, Poe’s words from earlier _For someone to stay_ hanging just as tangible around them as the glowing flora of this backwater moon. If a thunderstorm is brewing, Finn thinks a lightning bolt striking through his soul would not feel as electric and _wild_ as _this_ moment, this pause that holds lifetimes.

Poe swallows. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> A couple words: 
> 
> I am white, and I am writing from the POV of a Black character in a series that mistreated this character and the actor who plays him. If I ever write Finn in an insensitive way, please let me know. I want this story to be respectful to the character and everything John Boyega gave to him.
> 
> Also: John Boyega has been attending BLM marches in England so I want to say as well -- if you disagree with any part of the Black Lives Matter movement, stop reading this story and everything I write. I don't want this Black character to be for your consumption if you aren't also for the liberation of Black people globally.
> 
> If you are also white or non-Black and don't understand and are open to discussion/have questions, feel free to message me. I'm willing to have those conversations.
> 
> Thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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